


Please Answer Clearly

by Tarth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8173589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarth/pseuds/Tarth
Summary: "The girl. Have you found her?""I have," said Brienne, Maid of Tarth."Where is she?""A day's ride. I can take you to her, ser... but you will need to come alone. Elsewise, the Hound will kill her."





	1. I Will

**Author's Note:**

> The moment I conceived this was the moment I realized I was in for a very long ride. So here's the first chapter for you all. It's a bit short in my opinion, and for that I apologize. This is to reorient you all with Jaime and Brienne, and get you to know them together again. Hope you enjoy!

The half moon sat gracefully and gracelessly in the sky, like a nail imprinted by the hand of the gods, overlooking the beginnings of their travels. It reminded Brienne of her home, and it lit the road, outlining the imperfections of the ground, that their horses might avoid them. When the warm wind blew, Brienne pulled her shoulders in: a small movement, one that she hoped Jaime wouldn’t see. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t pleasant for her, either. Every little movement of the air against her inflamed excoriated skin brought a touch of discomfort to her. She ignored it all, kept her eyes to the front, squinting though she was. Every minute stretched on longer and longer. After a while, it seemed as though even her heart had felt the slow and begun to slow its beat in her chest, which only seemed to drag the night slower, seemed to make tap of horses’ hooves more sedate, seemed to dull her senses until her surroundings were reduced only to what was surrounding her: the path before her, the trees that cast shadows even darker than darkness. And Jaime beside her.

They rode for what seemed like hours, even though she knew it was an hour’s travel at most: Brienne, broken and bruised, beaten and bashed, atop her pretty mare, and Jaime, whole and healthy, untouched and undisturbed, it seemed, on the horse he’d borrowed from the men at Riverrun. They would have struck an awesome sight to anyone who happened to pass them by, a freakish tall woman and a well-kept knight, but there was no one in sight. No lone man in his right mind would travel these wilds alone, but as she had pressed him to follow immediately, so their pace mimicked that. And so they rode without a word with only the wind for company.

Beneath Brienne, the mare whinnied. It nearly shocked her how loud it sounded in the half-darkness. Half-darkness, like half-everything she had been granted. Half-moon, half-darkness. Half-truths and half-lies. She thought of the Elder Brother, back at the Saltpans, everything that he’d told her, and she wished she were there now. What was it Narbert had told her, when she, and Pod, and Septon Meribald with his dog, had arrived? _He has restored many a man to health that even the maesters could not cure, and many a woman too_. What she would give to have someone here for her now. She was not with child, nor suffering with her moon’s blood, but she had a knight’s injuries on her body. What she would give to have him cure the bite at her cheek, her ailing arm, her broken ribs, and every bruise and laceration her fight had gained her. Nothing could cure those now but time, and she wasn’t sure she had much of it left.

Her cheek throbbed. It always throbbed, but the thought of Biter reminded her of it, made it radiate all the more painfully in her consciousness. She was grateful now that he was on her good side. It meant he didn’t have to see the thick bandages where Biter had torn her cheek away with his teeth. He didn’t have to see the way her arm hung loosely at her side, wrist propped at her thigh, palm up. It was her left forearm that had met its match between the ground and Biter’s hard knee. For that, at least, she was grateful, though not happy. She could still fight with her right, and that was all that seemed to matter now. On her right side, under the cover of night, Jaime couldn’t see how fatigued she truly was. The remnants of the Brave Companions had stripped her of half her resilience. Now, even the wind made her shudder.

The Brotherhood had returned Oathkeeper to her, at least. She’d left King’s Landing with her mare and weapon and armor, her shield and her coins and a writ from King Tommen himself. All she had of those now were her mare, and Oathkeeper, and the pitiful remains of her hauberk, dented and battle-worn like her own body. She didn’t know what she would do had they kept her from taking Oathkeeper with her. They had spared both her life and her magic sword, and in it spared her sanity.

They _had_ taken her two companions, though. Pod and Hyle were with Stoneheart and her men. She thought of Pod, with his stuttering tongue and deferential inclination, and felt a pang of concern. How was he faring now? Had they kept him and Hyle together, at the very least? What were they doing to them now? There came to her mind the image of Pod with the noose around his neck, eyes sad and frantic, legs kicking alongside Hyle’s breathless, choking curses, and she almost retched.

At least her companion couldn’t see her edge. She thought bleakly of the still-unfamiliar ease she felt now with him at her side. It seemed as though a thousand years had passed since they’d embarked on their first journey. It had been night when they’d left, just like this, and hurried, just like this; now, though, Jaime was clean-shaven as an armored man could be, looking spry and adamant, when before he had looked a man half-dead for all the wine Catelyn had given him, and she didn’t have Ser Cleos to keep his words in line (little good as that had done; she’d learned the first day that nothing would keep his quick tongue from working). And now, they traveled in silence. It was quite different from their previous journey, wrought with jibes and insults and demands for silence; she was granted the latter willingly this time. Perhaps he remembered how much she had wanted silence and decided to provide her with it now. Perhaps he was just as nervous as she was, that they were traveling again; but Jaime was never a man for stress or worry. Perhaps it was because they were almost as strangers again. It was a familiar path, but they had both changed in their time apart; she no longer felt she knew him as she’d known him when they were tied together, surviving the horrors of abuse together. They hadn’t seen each other for what seemed like years, and yet here they were, with only each other for company, traveling in hopes that Sansa Stark would be at the end of it all.

She grimaced. Almost winced at the pain even that small movement caused her. No, there would be no Sansa Stark at the end of it all. There was nothing happy at the end of it. There was nothing happy at the end of anything, it seemed.

“You’re ten times quieter since last I saw you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime turn his head to look at her. She mimicked the motion, turning her head slightly to have a better view of him. The moonlight wasn’t bright, but she could see the slight curl of his lip. The smirk.

For a moment, she considered not answering him at all. “… I had not noticed, ser.”

“I hope they did not take your tongue when they took your cheek.”

There it was: that caustic humor she’d prior been wishing to hear. She shot him a hard glance. “Be quiet.”

His grin was all tooth and charm, but she could see (if she could even call it seeing: there was hardly any light to go by) a tired sort of shine in his expression. “It was an honest question.”

“It wasn’t.” The repartee was easy to fall into. That, at least, was familiar. She wasn’t certain she knew what familiar _was_ anymore. “I told you. It was only a bite.”

He was quiet for a moment. She saw him turn and look back at the road ahead, and looked away in response, reaching to dig her fingers into the mane of her mount. Not only was her wound sore, but it had been agony to sustain. Biter’s fingers hard at her neck, thumbs pressing into her throat and cutting the air from her lungs. His weight, heavy as a horse, pressing her down, forcing her from movement. Oathkeeper ripped from her hand, hair ripped from her scalp. And her skin. Her skin, ripped from her cheek, torn with his sharp teeth. Biter swallowing, dipping for another taste, eating her alive. She felt a knot in her throat. _Only a bite. It is only a bite. Wounds heal._

There was a tension in the air now of which she wanted desperately to be rid. Shifting uncomfortably in her saddle, Brienne called to mind a semblance of conversation. She had never been good with conversing, and words never came easily to her. Her oaths were what drove her. Not words. Only actions.

She didn’t have to say anything. A moment later, Jaime moved again. “What happened?”

“What?”

“To your cheek.”

“A bite,” she parroted, earning from him another amused laugh.

“I understood you the first time. I’m asking you what _happened_.”

All prior recall slid back into her thoughts, as did the disagreeable scowl that made her wound course with pain. She didn’t wish to lie to Jaime, no matter how long it had been since they had last seen each other. Her thoughts were still partial as they ever were to him for all he had done for her, and while the topic was in her mind, she remembered who they were. “Brave Companions.”

“How do you know?”

His voice had changed somehow, had lost the humor it once had. She looked to him and noticed, too, how his grin had vanished, replaced with a severity she had rarely ever seen on him before. He wore it well, but she wasn’t happy for it. “I recognized one of them.” When the lightning flashed, she’d seen the face behind the Hound’s helm. “Rorge. He was –”

“One of the men in the last group. I remember his name.” His hand tightened on his reins, and she swore she saw him pull left, swore she saw his courser dance a bit closer to her own. “Was it he who hurt you?”

“No.”

They watched each other for several long moments. So long that Brienne had to look away, peering, back into the darkness of the road ahead. He was too silent, and the thought alone made the back of her throat itch with words unspoken. “… I killed him. It was the one after who did it.”

Then she became silent again. Jaime attempted, twice more, to have her speak on her plight, but she said nothing else, refusing to dare speak again on the subject. It still hurt, remembering the battle. The subsequent hanging. She would sooner cut her tongue out than say anything else. Her stomach was rolling, moving up into her chest. If she spoke against it, it would not be words that he’d hear. The peril of that humiliation kept her silent.

Soon enough, they fell into another quiet row. She tapped her heel into her horse’s flank to drive it faster, knowing that Jaime would match pace once he realized what she was doing. They would stop soon, she determined, and find a place to rest. _I will not sleep._ Those nights she had traveled with Crabb and Pod, she had told herself those same words. _I will not sleep._ But she could rest more easily with Jaime by her side, even if her thoughts strayed elsewhere. Even if she still agonized over the woman with the marks like claws beneath her eyes, to whom she had sworn her sword a thousand years ago and whose oaths she still had near to her heart. That Brienne would find Sansa Stark and keep her safe was not a matter of _if_ , it was a matter of _when_. When she would find Sansa Stark was not known to her, but _when_ it happened, she would make sure that she would be her source of safety. From that day until her last day.

If she did not die first.

They traveled three miles more before she finally spoke. “We’re stopping.”

“What do you mean?”

He knew what she meant, and she didn’t answer. Led her horse ahead of his and through the trees, off of the path, that they might come upon a place more remote. They would find no safety in this wilderness, but the shelter of the trees was better than nothing at all.

She found a place a quarter of a mile into the trees and dismounted, stretching her legs. While Jaime followed suit, she made her way to a tree, tying her horse and arcing around to retrieve her bedroll. She could feel Oathkeeper’s hard sheath in the fabric as she knelt. Careful fingers drew it from its hiding place; all the while, she felt the dull thing at her side complain for her sway, but she only had eyes for Oathkeeper. Though she didn’t draw the blade, it was almost as though she could see the Valyrian steel through the scabbard, all black and red and ridged where it had been folded over a thousand, thousand times. It was beautiful, and it would have glistened even in this darkness had she withdrawn it.

“Oathkeeper.”

She looked up. Jaime had already tied his horse and unpacked. He stood several feet from her, pulling at the tabs of his sword belt, and was watching the scabbard. Perhaps he saw through it too. “Yes.”

“You still have it.”

It wasn’t a question, and Brienne didn’t take it as one. She simply nodded in answer, suddenly feeling exposed. This was Jaime’s sword, not hers, and she almost offered it to him then and there. It would suit him. The Lannister with the lion by his side. It belonged to him, belonged in his possession.

Then the moment passed, and she could speak again. “Yes.”

He blinked. Then he smiled – a scant thing in inadequate light. “Is that all you can say, wench?”

“My name is –”

“Forget it.” He laughed and turned away. Likely he was ridiculing her again. She was no fool to think his gratitude overflowing. He knew that she’d kept Oathkeeper, and perhaps he was thankful she’d kept it. But that was all.

The night was full of darkness. No moonlight made it through the trees, making it difficult to see. The darkness was making Brienne tired anyhow, and she soon settled against the trunk of a tree, staring into darkness and watching the bare outline of Jaime as he, too, made himself comfortable at the base of the tree next to her. She rested her head back against the tree. Would have kept watch if her eyes weren’t so heavy, if her cheek didn’t hurt so badly. But Jaime was here. Jaime could keep watch. Only for an hour. Then she would rouse herself, allow him his own rest.

“Jaime,” she murmured, so tired she could hardly hear herself.

He was still awake. “Brienne?”

“Wake me in an hour.” Her eyes slid shut. She heard him shift, or perhaps it was the wind again. This time, it didn’t touch her.

“I will.”


	2. East, I Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, these chapters will become longer. Perhaps. Eventually. My impatience gets in the way, though, sorry.
> 
> That being said, read between the lines.

Jaime did not, in fact, wake her in an hour.

The first thing that met Brienne when she awoke was the sun. It blinded her against the blackness of her sleep. Limbs heavy, fingers curling through the dirt, she allowed her eyes to open. Squinted, waited for her eyes to adjust.

Unconsciousness was a vague thing – she wasn’t used to sleeping – and her dreams were even vaguer. Where she should know brief moments of waking, there was only emptiness. Fatigue still weighed at her eyes, though, and grogginess plagued her limbs, and heaviness assaulted her tongue. Something lingered in the back of her mind; she knew she’d dreamt while she slept, but what it was, she couldn’t remember. All as well. As of late, all her dreams had not been dreams at all, but nightmares filled with blood and roses and shadows. It seemed she had been spared from harrowing recollection. Next time, she doubted she would be so lucky.

Then her thoughts spurred, surpassing her eyes in acclimation, and she remembered where she was. With a small jolt, she glanced toward the tree Jaime had rested himself against before she’d gone to sleep.

He was gone, and so were the horses. She should have remembered hearing him get up, should have woken at the slightest sound. Should have known she would not be so lucky. _He’s disappeared_ , she thought to herself, _and taken my horse with him. He’s disappeared with Oathkeeper. I will never find them._ For why else would he abandon her side if not to leave her stranded? The only one she slept around comfortably was Podrick Payne, and he was more than half a day’s ride away, lost to the whims of the Brotherhood and their rasping leader. It felt empty without him here. Even his silences were missed: at least when she’d had him by her side, she knew she’d had a companion who did not condemn her wordlessness. With Jaime, she didn’t know. With Jaime, she wasn’t sure of anything. When he rode beside her, did he think her dull? When he listened to her speak, did he think her tedious? When he responded with his quips, his light slights, his observations, did he think her witless? Did he think her uncomprehending? Did he think her a fool for her answers?

She heard the clip of horses’ hooves on the ground and turned, expecting a traveler. Perhaps she could spill her worries onto him, this traveler. She could ask him if he’d seen a man with golden hair and eyes green as emeralds, with a mare and a courser, and if he’d seen a sword at his side – no regular sword, but a magic sword. It was there, by her bedroll, guarding her, but it still felt as though he’d taken it with him.

Jaime’s lip curled at her expression. “I watered your mare.”

She would never tell him that she thought he’d left her there – the relief that pierced her heart like a dagger told her well enough, and she was the only one who would ever know. To Jaime, she simply dipped her chin, carefully flattening her expression into one of cool insouciance, as though his grin might be tempered should she feign neglect. He could blame her shock on her waking, for she would say no more but, “I thank you, Ser Jaime.”

His grin remained even as she retrieved her mare and led it back to her sleeping place. As she packed her bedroll, her gaze strayed toward her companion. She couldn’t help it: the way her eyes wandered toward him as though he possessed the same pull that the land had on their feet. They fell to him easily, watching as he looked over his belongings. The sun set his hair aflame the way it never had when they’d traveled to King’s Landing. She’d hardly had a chance to see it in the light; it was dirty and unkempt for the first day’s travel, and then he’d choked suspicion by shaving.

It was longer now, she noticed, and better maintained. It held light easily, unlike the straw that sat atop her own head, and seemed to glisten right back at her. He passed under a shadow, and it disappeared, but even the small slivers that the trees allowed to peek through their leaves caught those strands. Again, they smiled toward her.

Brienne would have reciprocated, had not the wound at her cheek been still so grievous. It pained her to smile. It had been weeks since she last remembered: months, perhaps, since memory seemed to dismiss itself as easily as water down a stream. She never smiled much anyhow. There was little good in the world, and she had learned of it only too late. No good came of her countenance, that made women look at her as though she were pig to butcher and men look at her as though she were a dog to take. No good came of her oaths, for Renly was dead and Catelyn was no longer Catelyn. No good came of her deeds, the likes of which were overshadowed by those she traveled with. No good came of her happiness, which she no longer remembered. Her time with Jaime was as much good as she would likely get, and even that was overshadowed by the sword.

By the time they set out, the morning had warmed. Perturbation made her shiver like a half-starved hound. She curled her arm around herself and locked her shoulders tightly. So tightly that they screamed at her to let up. She didn’t; she would never allow Jaime to see how indisposed her current condition was. The last thing she needed was a man’s worry at her back. _Knights don’t need anyone to protect them._ Her sword would protect her, and she could wield it well.

It didn’t take long for Jaime to speak. “How did you manage to find Sansa Stark?”

The question took her off guard. She sat silent. Gathered her wits and found her words. “A sellsword told me that she was on her way to Riverrun.”

“Sansa Stark?”

“He said the Hound stole her.”

“And she is with him now.”

“Yes.” Though he was lacking his helm, now, and his name, and his life. Another burst of warm air ran through her armor, but she held back the shudder. Gods, it was as though Biter’s teeth had ripped away all her physical fortitude and left her only a shell of what she once had. “I spoke with them, and they asked for you specifically.”

“And you know for certain that you named them correctly? That they did not lie to you?”

She looked to him and saw the uncertainty in his expression. “Do you doubt me, ser?”

“Your lies are as good as your beauty, my lady. I have no reason to doubt you.”

His words had long since served to cut her. Her skin was as tough as the Valyrian steel of her sword, her regard even more so. “Then I have found Sansa Stark, and I have found the Hound, and they ask that you come alone.”

“And that is what I’m doing.”

Yes, of course that was what he was doing. She couldn’t be more grateful that he had decided to listen to her and come alone. He was no man to shirk his duties and follow a woman at the cawing of a crow, nor did she think he ever would be. But she’d expected more of a fight from him: perhaps a complaint, a word that he had better things to do, a reminder that she could do it alone. Instead, he had come willingly. And that made her guilty.

It hurt her now to think of guilt. Of Stoneheart. The memory of her was like hemp at her throat, constricting tight, cutting off her air so that she had to gasp and croak for it. They were only thoughts this time, but, as of late, her thoughts were what had her rasping. Words were easy to deflect, like the point of a blade. It was what lurked inside her mind that undermined her walls, her oaths: that she would find her daughters and return them to her; that she would conceal her gold and serve no more lions; that she would honor her choice.

Suddenly, she no longer felt noble. Nobody in this world had failed more than her.

Eventually, the trees parted, and they were back beneath the blue sky. The heat of the sun beat down on her and surrounded her with warmth. After the coldness of her thoughts, she was thankful for the change. It meant she could ignore the unforgiving ice in her veins, the way it crept up the back of her spine like some old friend. But the gods knew her folly, and soon the light was gone, replaced with muted shade, forcing her to draw her arm back across herself. When she looked into the sky, she saw that the clouds had made their way across and blocked the sun.

_The gods are right to punish me._ They were not dead, but very much alive, watching over her. Admonishing her for her past, her present, her future misdeeds. _May the Father judge me justly._

She didn’t say a word, but somehow Jaime knew of her discomfort. Several times, he spoke to it, and several times, she would deny, until he finally grew tired of his attempts and left her alone. It was better that way. The only one who needed to worry was herself; he would fare poorly if he thought too hard on her condition – whether that be physically or mentally. Thinking upon his concern for her, instead of aiding her discomfiture, seemed to make it worse. Not only was she now uncomfortably aware that her body could hardly handle these clement conditions – the likes of which she could once go without consciousness –, but she was also aware of how alone they truly were. Even during the day, it seemed, there were no travelers. She found herself wanting to hear a wagon wheel, or perhaps the shuffling of a distant horse. Anything to remind her that they were not the only two people left in this world. It was too cruel for either of them, and far too desolate a place to linger. If they were the only ones left, then what oaths did she have left to uphold?

She knew which oaths. Ones she hadn’t sworn aloud. Ones she would never say aloud, nor admit to. Ones she would keep to herself until the end of her days.

An hour passed in their quiet leisure. Their horses kept good pace and never slowed, and before long, Brienne again found herself staring at the road ahead of her, warding away the lull of insentience. When she had traveled with Ser Illifer the Penniless and Ser Creighton Longbough, they had always ridden on either side of her, and spoken to her sincerely, the way no man at Renly’s camp had ever spoken. They were aged and good men, watching after a woman’s health as well as any knight should. Nobody knew of them, though, and no one needed know of them. So long as their names remained unheralded, they would be safer on the road, if only slightly. But she’d had no need of them in their travels; she’d appreciated their company, but to wander aimlessly when she had elsewhere to go, others things to do, wouldn’t do it for her. She wondered where they were. Still traveling, still telling their tales? Protecting another stupid girl who donned armor?

No one stayed at her left now, and Jaime always rode at her right. If his courser ever fell to trotting to fast or too slow, and he absentmindedly switched her sides, she would always find a way to wander to his left. Whenever the wind blew, she would feel the bandages at her face tighten, as though in an attempt to cling to the raw wound and protect it. If Jaime were to her left, he might notice it, might say something about it, and she was in no mood to speak about it.

The first person they met was garbed so thickly Brienne couldn’t see his face. They gave him a passing glance, nodded a greeting, and went on. Jaime said nothing to him. To the second he bid good day. Brienne stayed silent through it all. At one time, he would have called her a tight-lipped cow and tossed her a bone of words in an attempt to rile her anger. Now, though, she was never angry, and he was never irritating. Not once did she tell him to stay quiet, and not once did he give her cause to do so.

Not until they met the men and their cart. One look gave her cause for distrust. One man had a dagger in his hand and held it as though he intended to use it, and the other had a wicked gleam in his eye and a smile that curled his lip into a sneer. She knew the likes of men like these. They were the ones who visited her when she shut her eyes, the ones who kept her in her dream’s fiendish clutches until they finally cut her tongue out, ripped her hair out, poured tar down her throat and made her suffocate.

“You have any food on y’?” the man with the dagger piped up. He sounded hungry.

And Jaime answered, “Only what you see on us.”

“Don’t see nothin’ on you.”

“And that is what we have.”

The second, sneer still on his face, had his gaze on Brienne. She looked right back. Felt the urge to reach for her sword. Didn’t, even when he said, “What about that one?”

“What of her?”

“A woman dressed in a knight’s armor. Looks like she’s ripe for slaughter.”

“If I were selling cows, you would know. This one is not for sale.”

Brienne ignored that. “We have no food, and we have no gold.” She had lost the coin Ser Jaime had given her when she’d left King’s Landing. Probably to the hands of the Brotherhood when she’d slept her fever away. “If you seek to poach us, you will be sorely displeased.”

“Didn’ know heifers could talk. She not been touched yet? I know somethin’ we could steal, if she hasn’t.” Dagger took a step forward.

Jaime’s courser turned its head. Brienne didn’t see the reigns move but for the sway the little movement had caused. “Best you don’t. This one can kick.”

_Could have kicked better before Biter took it away from her_ , she thought, bitterly, and did not say. Her grip on the reigns tightened.

“Our bones are tough, and we been through worse. Nothin’ a little kick won’t add.”

Behind Dagger, Sneer started to move, circling around him and approaching her horse. Jaime’s mare moved closer still – then his boot jabbed his horse’s underbelly and he rode. Almost plowed right over Sneer. But the latter was quick, and moved out of the way before a hoof got to him.

In the same instant, she saw her own opening, and soon she and Jaime were flying: past the two yelling men, over the hard ground, _flying_. She’d known that he knew. Neither one of them could make it past even a pair of bandits. Not now, when Jaime no longer had his hand and she no longer had her wits about her. He had been all in shackles, weak and out of practice when she’d fought him, but no doubt he’d had more strength in him then than she had now. He could fight! A shame, that she would never know how well he fought. Would never know if the rumors were true. Would never know the true skill of Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of King Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard. It made her sad, but also relieved. Had she faced him in his full glory, she would never have defeated him.

That made her sadder still.

A stray strand of hair stuck in her eye. She pulled it away, arcing her mare to follow close behind the courser. His steed could have won in a race, certainly, but her mare could have won in endurance. He pulled ahead for what seemed like miles, but she was hardly worried that he would leave her behind, and she caught him before the real first had passed anyhow. In the end, they were both breathing heavily, though neither of them had done any running. It made her tired to keep herself upright.

“Which direction have we gone?” Jaime twisted himself around, looking back behind them, as though the men would at any moment appear. They didn’t. They wouldn’t; they _couldn’t_.

“East, I think.”

He paused. “Then we need to find an inn.”


	3. All The Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more dialogue in this, I swear.

It took them most of the day to find an inn. It seemed to Brienne to take only an hour. Jaime seemed to know exactly where the were in the vast plain, though she had to recall, ponder, deliberate over how far off the mark they were. She rode after him while she thought, and after a while even that set her head to pounding, so she gave up and watched the ear of his horse instead. Every time a bug came near, it flicked, and she blinked.

They made it to the inn in good time. Once their horses were tied, they entered. The first thing she noticed was how few people lingered at the tables. They must have all been at war, else this place had little business. It wouldn’t surprise her: if she had been alone, she would have never known of this place. Would have likely passed it and slept in the shadows the next night, unaware of the hot food and comfortable featherbed not several miles behind. It was all she needed at this point. The last she’d been comfortably lodged in an inn – and even then, she was never comfortable enough to sleep without waking once or twice in the night – she hadn’t been quite so bloody tired.

“Sit down,” Jaime said. She was all too happy to listen. The several men that were there watched her as she made her way past. It made her skin crawl. She chose the farthest table from them, near the stairs should she have need of privacy – and in case any of them thought to interrogate or otherwise abuse her.

Jaime joined her once their intentions for meal and board were made clear, slipping into the seat across from her. His heavy golden hand thumped solidly on the table. The other arm rested, bent-elbow and curled-fingers, around his arm, shielding it from view. “I imagine your man will call us late when we get there.”

_Good._ It wasn’t safe to utter either of their names. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we must reach them.”

“We will. But in your sorry state, I could take you with my left and leave you worse than the last fight we had.”

He was right, of course. She was not weak. She hated being called weak. Yet she could barely keep her eyes open, and her responses to him were slow, if present at all. “If you’ve chosen to delay our journey because of me, ser –”

“Save your words for the girl, my lady. I did it for the both of us.” He let air from his nostrils in a snigger. “I had no chance for sleep last night, looking over you.”

She felt her cheeks heat. Rolled her shoulders back and lowered her head so that he wouldn’t see it. “I thought you’d slept.”

“Did you sleep well, at least?” He sounded vaguely curious.

Before she could answer him well, they were approach by the innkeeper. Jaime had a cup of wine and pigeon pie, while she simply had water.

“I see your journey hasn’t changed you,” he said, when the innkeeper left them. At her puzzled glance, he went on. “Have you ever ordered wine in your life?”

“Whether I have or haven’t does not concern you.”

“Ah, so you have.”

It wasn’t entirely an untruth. She had ordered wine whenever the water seemed untrustworthy, or when the inns hadn’t had water to spare. Even then, she had hers watered down – if not, she hardly drank a bit of it. “Yes.”

“And did you like it, my lady?”

“I have mine with water.” It sounded now as though he served to get on her nerves. She wasn’t about to let it work.

Not that he seemed hellbent on pressing her patience, and not that she would take it as such. The curl on his lip told her what she needed to know, the gleam in his eye even more so. It was not malicious intent he saw there. She knew what that looked like, had seen it on the faces of hundreds of men when they’d seen her for what she was. If he had wanted to get under her skin, he knew what to say. They had traveled together at the height of indignation, and he had dug at her side more times than she cared to count. He knew how to do it, and he wasn’t doing it now.

The meal came soon enough. She had not realized how hungry she was. By the time she even took her first sip of water, near half her pie was gone. Jaime’s was hardly touched. Perhaps he’d lost his appetite in the time they’d spent away from each other. Or perhaps it was the chains that did it, his lack of proper food to fill his stomach. It must have shrunk; he’d been hungrier before.

“Jaime?” she asked, and when he looked up, she suddenly forgot her words. Dropped her eyes to her fork and dug it into her food as though she were digging a tiny grave for her lost question. “Do you… what has happened since I left?”

His jaw stopped working at his food for a moment. There was a thought in his eye, but he never took his gaze off her. She could feel it burning at her face. Or perhaps that was only the blood creeping up her neck and cheeks, making warm her skin. More like she looked red as the setting sun on a clear day.

If he noticed, he elected to ignore it. “Not soon after you left, my brother escaped the Red Keep. You’ll remember, the gods judged him guilty and crushed the Viper’s skull with that judgment.” She expected him to say it with a trace of wit, but when she glanced up towards him, all she saw was a storm on his face, a kind of discomposure she had never seen before. “He murdered our lord father before he left.”

She pushed the fork harder. It hit the bottom, and she scooped it up to her lips, murmuring a quick, “I am sorry to hear of it,” before filling her mouth. She would rather not have to speak if she did not have to. It obviously hurt the man to tell of it, and she felt contrite about asking.

“I refused the title of Hand,” he continued, “and left for Riverrun. Matters of the siege, everything.”

It was at that point he stopped speaking. Brienne wanted to ask him for more. Wanted to ask why he had refused such a title, wanted to ask what possessed him to leave King’s Landing in the first place. But she couldn’t speak the words, and took another forkful of food instead.

“And you, Brienne?” He began eating again. “What led you to that terrible bite?”

She would not speak on the fight she had. “There was a boy with a piebald rounsey who followed me from Rosby to Maidenpool. And that was the last I saw of him.” She hoped to the gods the lie didn’t appear plain on her face. “I met Lord Randyll Tarly, who...” _Told me that I should go home, that I should return to Tarth_. She’d considered it. Not extensively, but the thought of Evenfall Hall and her father was a desire she had every so often – most usually when she was alone, or when it was dark and sleep couldn’t find her. “… who told me he had not seen the girl. There were Brave Companions, too, but I killed the first of them. The others…”

“Caused that wound.”

This was not the same Jaime Lannister she’d taken back to King’s Landing on account of her lady’s wishes. This was not the Kingslayer who had told her she would never be able to take him in a fight. This was not the same man who had tried to wound her with word and with sword. This one was calmer, more attentive to her condition. This one would never try to wound her, would never try to kill her should he ever come upon the chance. He’d had the chance when she’d slept last night and had not taken it. He’d had the chance while they were traveling together, but she had seen nothing irregular about his behavior then. He had the chance now, with the men about, eyeing her as they were, to call upon them and have them kill her. He didn’t.

And she was not the same Brienne of Tarth who had hauled him about with only duty’s worth of care for his condition. She was not the same wench who had ignored his explanations in favor of her own prejudices. She was not the same woman who had thought him vile, a monster to be rid of in exchange for the Stark girls. She was wiser now, more attuned to his integrity. He had saved her from the very monsters she thought he was, had saved her maidenhead twice, had saved her life once. He had given her a sword and told her to fulfill her duties. He had given her a purpose, and nothing she could ever do would repay him for it.

“I must say, I was worried you would be killed before you found the girl. I’m glad to see you survived it. And found her, too.”

Even through her doubt, Brienne thought she heard his candor. It colored his voice, made it brighter – made her fidget where she was. She said nothing to it. Didn’t trust her voice. It was as though her insides were the makings of a candle, and his words were the fire that lit the fuse of distress inside her. As though the lining of her stomach was on fire. The heat spread from there, up into her chest, into her throat. Into her arms, prickling the roots of the colorless hairs overtop; if they were not covered by her sleeves, she knew she would see her skin red, burned from the flames her stomach conjured.

Absentmindedly, she stared down at her food, fingers curling around the handle of her fork. “There is no reason for you to worry for me. I can handle myself.”

“I know. That’s why I sent you off with that sword.” He tilted his head – a nod to their horses, where he now knew Oathkeeper to be hiding in her bedroll. “I see it’s done you well.”

Valyrian steel was sharper than regular steel. Oathkeeper always sang a pretty tune when it was pulled from its scabbard. She heard it echo in her mind, a faint song of crimson blood and the spells by which it had been forged. It was bewitching, haunting, a beast of a blade like no other she held before. In her hands, it was wild. It could kill half a dozen men, if only she had the skill to do it. Her fingers itched now with the desire to touch the blade again, to run their pads along the pommel of her blade, with the lion’s gaping maw open, rows of tiny teeth scattered to scare her enemies. And she had more enemies than every breath she had ever taken. “It has.”

“I would have had no use for it.” He reached for his wine. The reminder of his hand must have had him using it: gold clinked deep at the goblet, slamming into the side so hard as to tip it off balance.

It took Brienne half as long to reach out and prevent his drink from spilling. Several droplets spilled onto her hand: without thinking, she lifted it to her lips and cleaned it with her tongue. “Careful.” The fire made her braver. “You sup as well as you fight.”

His gaze flickered to her hand. Lingered. “I wasn’t at my best when I fought you.”

“That was not what I meant.”

Their eyes met. The look in his told her that he knew exactly what she’d meant. A moment later, he raised his hand – careful to watch for any prying eyes – and tapping at one of the solid fingers. It even _sounded_ rich. “I doubt you’d like to fight against this, my lady. You would lose, I’m afraid. A pot of gold beats ten pounds of steel to a band of sellswords.”

“I am no sellsword.” _And Oathkeeper is Valyrian steel and yields a gold hilt._

“But you have nothing between your legs, and gold sears a righteous path for many maidens I’ve met. Even the most honorable ones.” When fury flashed across her face, he lowered his hand again and tilted his head. “No, Brienne – and I do not think you need it. You fight well.”

He meant to compliment her. She almost didn’t take it as one. Took a breath, allowed herself a moment to compose herself. “If I were to take you in a fight, ser, I would win.”

“Now, yes. Not if you had known me two years before.” Then his expression wavered. It seemed to border on hesitant, perhaps even bitter. “But I have been practicing.”

That piqued her curiosity. She hadn’t thought he’d ever try fighting with his left. “Why?”

“To see if I might match my right, before I wore it for a necklace.”

Curious. She hadn’t seen him fight yet. “How well are you now?”

“A tavern wench could fight me away with a rusted carving knife, easily.”

Whatever eagerness she’d felt withered in the fire at her core. Her gaze returned to her pie, and she said no more. Neither did Jaime.

He finished first. While she finished with her meal, he left to negotiate their rooms for the evening. Even the mere thought of settling for the evening on her own was enough comfort for her.

She rose from her place as he returned. Together, they retrieved their belongings from their horses. She rounded the two, made sure the knots were tight, then followed him back inside. Up the stairs they went; it took her all not to take them two at a time.

Her happiness, however, was extinguished once they reached their room. Not two, as she had suspected, but one. She stood in the doorway with her bedroll and pack. Glared around the room, as though it were some mortal enemy come to taunt her. It was not small, but it would never be large enough for her. “I thought you’d asked for two.”

“I did.” Jaime plodded to the table, dropping his pack at the leg and setting his bedroll across the chair. “They only had one.”

_Only had one._ She would have spit, if she’d had it in herself to do it. “We cannot share the same room.”

He turned on her. “Why not?”

“It is improper.”

“More improper than letting me sleep in my chains and waking me with a boot in the stomach? We’ve slept together before, don’t forget, though I was quite a bit muddier at that time.”

She couldn’t answer that. Still stood in the doorway as he unpacked what few belongings he had taken with her when they had left, mulling over whether she truly wanted this. _I have nothing to fear from Jaime._ He was kind, he was good, and he would never harm her. What she needed to worry about was the men outside the doorway, lurking the halls, waiting for an unsuspecting, defenseless maiden to make her room for the night. With even a small blade, any cutthroat could make his way past a guard or a swordsman. It was a matter of quietude and skill that managed the task. And the gods always allowed it to happen.

But the gods had allowed Jaime to sway Vargo Hoat into letting her keep her maidenhead. Allowed him to place guards around them, that they were protected from his own men. Those nights, she watched Jaime, one hand less and sick with fever, wondering why he’d saved her. He hadn’t sound opposed to it when he’d been with his chains and sword hand. Gave her every sort of trouble, and a cut to the thigh besides. But when Rorge and Shagwell and Zollo came and mussed her clothing, the dishonorable Kingslayer found one more lie of his own – for her sake.

He wouldn’t do it.

Quiet, Brienne finally made her way into the room. The door creaked as she shut it, and the lock sounded so loudly she nearly jumped from her skin. She placed her bedroll at the foot of the single drawer, slinging her pack off her shoulder. “You take the bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“You won’t.”

He sniggered. “You mistake me, my lady. I’ve slept on worse than groaning floors and slats.”

“As have I.” The furs were there. All he needed do was crawl beneath them, and he’d be asleep in seconds, for how tired he looked. “But you said yourself you had little sleep the night before. You take the bed, and I will guard the door in case anyone comes.”

“No one will be coming, and there’s a lock on the door if they do. By the time they reach it, we’ll both be awake.” There was no worry in his voice, but there was an unsettled worry in Brienne’s stomach, stirring the high strings she’d managed to swallow since arriving at the inn.

_There is no cause for worry_ , she told herself firmly, gaze slipping to the furs again. Jaime was no fool. “I slept well the night before. You take the bed.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him look to her. She looked to him, determined to keep the resolve hard on her countenance. He would take the bed, else she would leave him and sleep elsewhere.

A moment later, he relented, moving to retrieve his bedroll from the chair. “Very well, you stubborn wench. I’ll sleep in the bed, if it mean you’ll quit your mulish arguments.”

While he fixed his place, she took her pack to the window. When she peered out, she found that the sun had already found its way to the horizon. The scattered trees grew higher than the inn. One grew only several feet from where they were, and its shuddering branches hid the light, throwing a few beams, as though it were some sort of offering. As though the gods (or such) were telling them not to fear: there was still light to be had. _Little of it._ As of late, she’d known shades better than luster.

Soon, she pulled away and lit the candle. It cast a faint light through the room and flickered every so often, though there was no wind, sending lightness into panic and darkness into pride. Then it would even, and all would be calm.

Jaime wasn’t moving, and his eyes were shut to the world. She moved to check his breath: found his side rose and fell rhythmically. Several moments passed where she did not tear her gaze away. It was calming, that motion. Always the same pace, always _there_ , as an old friend might be.

She came away with a smile, making her way to the drawer and claiming the small, spare bowl on it. There was no chance she would be leaving, with Jaime so vulnerable, and so she returned to the table, placing the bowl down and settling in the chair. From her pack, she retrieved a small roll of bandages she had purchased. What water she had, she fetched into the bowl. Several dips would be enough. When it was half-filled, she set her pouch aside and began to work at the bandages at her face. It started in the back, she remembered. She had wound it nine times tight around her: from the top of the cheekbone; around her head; over the bridge of her nose; then a bit lower, all the way around and over the bridge of her nose again; by the sixth, it reached her jaw; three more, and it was finished.

It went from jaw to bridge to back now, and all the way up, over and over, until at last she could feel the air – much cooler against irritated flesh than that which had been exposed all along – pressed against the wound. The topmost smarted the worst. That was where she remembered the sharp teeth dug deepest. That was where the skin had been ripped away, twice, and where she had gone into fever. Thinking of fever _felt_ as fever to her, so she stopped thinking of that and touched her fingers to the water. Dabbed at the wound, lightly. There was nothing she might see into to help trace her wound; she was going on touch along, and shut her eyes to aid it. It felt rough and uneven, and when she picked at it with her nail, she felt it crust off. Dried blood, likely where her wound had reopened.

She grimaced, rubbing it away as gently as she could manage without wincing aloud. Once, she even had to dig her teeth into her lip to keep from making a noise that might wake Jaime. He needed his sleep, and she needed her privacy.

Half her face throbbed by the time she was finished cleaning, and her nostrils dripped so that she had to sniff every so often – always softly, gently. Below them, the conversation had begun to dwindle and die. Beside her, the candle continued to burn, the only source of light. It was beautiful, the way it glistened beside her. The way it seemed to wave when any small movement caused it to falter. It made her feel less alone.

She was peeling a new strip when he spoke. “Brienne.”

Nearly dropped it. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I almost was.”

She didn’t ask him how long ago he’d opened his eyes. How long he had been watching her. “Then meet it now. I will be here in the morning.” _For you to stare at, or what have you._ She broke the dressing when it was stretched enough, wiped at the beads that had rolled down her neck, and started wrapping herself again.

There was a shuffle of covers. “You never told me what happened to your face.”

“That does not matter.”

“It _does_ matter.”

Because she could not turn her head, she pivoted in her chair instead, twisting to face him. He was up on one elbow. The furs still covered him to his abdomen, and his other arm (he still wore his gold) curled comfortably in front of his chest, fingers splayed in front of him. _Why?_ the woman wanted to scream. _Why do you_ care _what Biter did to me?_ She did not scream. “Go to sleep.”

“Must you be so dogged in your secrets, woman?” He slipped slightly, then lowered himself down, all the while still watching her. “Will you ever tell me?”

“So long as you keep asking, never. Go to sleep.”

He lifted his brows. In this light, he looked almost content. Sounded content, too, when from his lips came the, “You wenches are all the same,” and he rolled onto his other side.

She could not help but stare at his back for several moments before starting up the task she’d paused. Ten wraps this time, tighter than the last. Then she replaced the roll in her pack, leaving the water out to idle in the tranquil air. She spread her bedroll several paces from the bed, to allow Jaime room should he become restless in the night, as well as to keep near the door. If anything were to come near, she would awaken in a moment.

The light was the last thing to go. Her steps were slow, the lean over the table even slower. There it fluttered, trembling for her breath, but she did not snuff it yet. “Sleep well, Ser Jaime.”

“Good night, Brienne.”

She blew the candle out.


End file.
